cold dusk

Sometimes in the stark loneliness of cold winter dusk, I reach under my wool shawl and rest my hand on the tender place between my ribs and my hip bone, wishing it was your hand there instead. I like the feel of you, the warmth and weight, the subtlety of pressure that wants, offers, and waits to be wanted before offering more. I like the wide-eyed way you look at me, as if there is a wild story written on my body, as if while blinking you’re afraid I’ll disappear. I like the resonance of your laughter, the ease with which it sinks into my skin, slips into my veins and swirls around inside me, nourishing, healing, sparking all kinds of happenings I’ve only dreamed of before. I like imagining you at a window, staring into the grey and pink streaked sky, waiting for the kettle to boil, and feeling my presence so strongly that you make two cups of tea instead of one.

— heidi kalyani, 2017 
from the *nothing is black and white* project: illustration created out of meditation with a single unbroken line